The Apothecary Factory
by Platinum Express
Summary: There's only one thing the Wizarding World can talk about: the intense battle between Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. It's splashed all over the front pages of the Prophet, the inside leafs of the Quibbler and whispered about at cocktail parties and champagne evenings. No one, though, knows the true story behind their fight.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

Arthur Wellington was pouring his afternoon cup of peppermint tea when he heard the knock on the door. He paused, his fingers curling uncertainly around the handle of his china cup. It had been four years since his wife, Grace, had died and since then, he didn't remember the last time someone had come calling.

He put down the cup and made his way to the front door. It was flanked by a small panel of glass and Arthur peered through it suspiciously for a moment. The man on the other side was studying the door intently - the kind of man who Arthur, who had all the gentility of a senior citizen, absolutely detested. He was a redhead, saw Arthur immediately. A little thick at the jowls and dressed in some outrageous jeans and an orange shirt. A yellow helmet hung casually at the nape of his neck.

Arthur decided it would be best not to open the door just yet. 'Yes?' he asked, a little uncertainly.

'Arthur Wellington? My name is Crowl. Rudy Crowl. I work for Malfoy Enterprises. Could you open the door a moment, please? I have to discuss a few things with you.'

Reluctantly, Arthur opened the door. And then, because his parents had hammered a strong sense of etiquette into him, he added, 'Do come in. Would you like a cup of peppermint tea?'

Crowl scratched the top of his head, scrunching up one side of his face. Arthur's distaste deepened. The man was dowdy, plump and broad, with oil stains on his clothes. His hands looked slightly muddy. 'Some other time, maybe,' he said, 'I'd shake hands with you, but I'm filthy right now. Anywhere we could sit down?'

Arthur led Crowl to his parlor, and cringed a little when he saw the man lower himself onto Grace's favourite chintz divan. 'Now then,' said Crowl, once he was comfortable. 'I have a bit of news for you, Mr Wellington. I warn you, this might come as a bit of a shock.'

'What sort of shock?' Arthur asked, pleasantly. He was beginning to suspect that Crowl was some sort of conman, and his fingers tightened automatically around the little cushion in his armchair, in which he his a wad of notes - his life savings.

'It's about your land,' explained Crowl. 'More specifically, not all of your land, but around three acres of it from the back fence onwards, starting from the road.'

Arthur felt a strange foreboding prickling up his spine. 'What about it?' he asked.

Crowl said calmly, 'It doesn't belong to you anymore. I have a legal declaration here - from Malfoy Enterprises, with whom I am employed as a contractor - which lays claim to that land and similar chunks of several of your neighbours' property.'

He produced a clip board, with a few complicated-looking sheets on it. Then, he whipped out a pen and looked expectantly at Arthur, who had gone very red in the face.

'What's the pen for?'

'Why, so you can sign this document, of course, Mr Wellington. At Malfoy Enterprises, we like to do things in an organised fashion. Even though it's accepted that the company does, in fact, own that land, it's better to have all the details threshed out.'

'Owns my land?' snapped Arthur. 'What on earth gave your precious Mr Malfoy that impression? This land is mine. It's been in my family for generations - we farm here! And stop brandishing that pen in my face, Mr Crowl. I have no intention of signing anything.'

Crowl sighed. He looked like someone who had just discovered that a piece of work was much more complicated than he'd initially assumed.

'I thought you'd make a bit of a protest about this, Mr Wellington,' he said, soberly. 'Which is why I've brought all the paperwork that proves that-'

'This land is mine!' bellowed Arthur.

Crowl tutted. He produced a few more papers. These, Arthur noticed, were handwritten in ink, in an old-fashioned calligraphy, and signed in - he flinched - was that blood?

'What's that?' he demanded.

Crowl looked pleased that he'd asked. 'These,' he explained, 'Are the documents that prove that three acres of this land belong to Malfoy Enterprises.'

'You're out of your mind,' Arthur said, with disgust. He had finally come to the conclusion that Crowl was playing some sort of sick joke. 'This land belonged to my father before me, and my grandfather before-'

'That,' finished Crowl. 'And so on and so forth. And in the year 1633, when these documents were written, this land belonged to a Jameson Wellington, possibly one in your line of ancestors.'

Arthur froze in shock. He knew exactly who Crowl was talking about. A potrait of the man hung in his attic.

'What does that have to do with it?' he asked, suspiciously.

'Everything, Mr Wellington,' said Crowl, and shuffling the papers together, he handed them to him.

As Arthur read the crawling script, he felt the blood drain from his face. He read them a second time, just to make sure he was seeing right.

'That's ridiculous,' he said, finally, but without much conviction.

Crowl smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. 'I don't think so in the least, Mr Wellington. It's perfectly legal. Don't feel too miserable about it, though. It's only three acres.'

'My back garden,' Arthur said, dully, 'My wife used to grow peonies there.'

'Your wive's peonies won't be the only ones that are going. Every home in this village has the same obligation.'

Slowly, Arthur looked up. 'There are more than a hundred homes in this village,' he said, slowly. 'What on earth is Malfoy Enterprises going to do with three hundred acres of land?'

Crowl grinned widely. His lips pulled back over slightly uneven teeth and Arthur shuddered.

'Why, don't you know, Mr Wellington? The Apothacery Factory.'


	2. Strawberries and Letters

**CHAPTER ONE**

'Work,' said Polly approvingly, as she pushed open the door to Hermione's office. She was holding three lime-yellow, semi-transparent files and sported a pleased smile. 'Just what we need, if you ask me. You've been sitting jobless too long. Drawing too much. This will do you a world of good.'

Hermione, who was in the process of sketching a strawberry on her legal pad, looked offended. 'What's wrong with my drawing.'

'Haphazard,' said Polly, abruptly. She put the files on the desk and Hermione groaned.

'What's the matter?' Polly asked, indignantly. 'These are fresh cases. What more could you ask for?'

'Don't tell me,' Hermione groaned. 'I'll tell you exactly what those cases are. The milkman versus the potter on the issue of who snagged the last copy of the Daily Prophet off the deparment store shelf. Some elderly woman who's lodged a case against the government because it's legalised homoseuxuality. And possibly, a kid who wants to sue his parents because they didn't buy him a stuffed bunny.'

Polly rolled her eyes. 'You're being picky,' she said, severely. 'Do you know where picky lawyers land up? On the streets.'

'A little pickiness never hurt anyone. I'd rather be on the streets than represent some fool like Old Lady Maggie again.'

'Hey, she had a serious problem-'

'She had ingrown toenails, Polly. I don't know why she wanted me to represent her in court over that.'

'Well, she might have been eccentric,' conceded Polly. 'But Hermione, you've been entirely caseless for the last two months. And need I remind you, as your private secretary, I have not been paid my full salary for the last two months.'

Hermione glared at her. 'Great,' she said, 'Just rub that in.'

'Look, you know I don't care about the money. But honestly, just brooding and drawing pieces of fruit isn't good for you. You need something challenging, something to take your mind off-'

'The milkman versus the potter isn't challenging,' muttered Hermione.

Polly glowered. 'For your information, the topmost one is the _landscaper_ versus the old lady who picks all the flowers at the town park.'

'Deeply challenging,' Hermione said, sardonically. 'But I think I'll wait.'

'Wait?' echoed Polly. 'Wait for what, exactly? The queen to ask you to defend her will?'

'_Wait_ for something a little more significant,' said Hermione. 'Look, I just-'

She broke off as a loud rap sounded across her office. A large black owl was hovering just outside the pane. It had a single gold thread around its neck and a letter in its claws.

Hermione jumped up and snapped open the window. She untied the letter from the owl's leg, tossed it a treat from the cup she kept on the counter, and then turned her attention back to the letter. It was rolled into a tight scroll, so she smoothened it across her palm. From where she was standing, Polly could see a single line scrawled across the parchment.

_It has begun_.

'This,' said Hermione, quietly, 'Is exactly what I was waiting for.'

* * *

When Draco Malfoy graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he decided that higher education was not for him. Unlike Hermione and several of his peers, he didn't enroll himself in a law college, philosophical school or an apprentice programme. This hardly surprised anyone, though. It was well known that Draco, when his father deemed fit, would seamlessly become a part of the machine of Malfoy Enterprises - a billion-galleon company that had been in his family for generations.

Instead, Draco took to grooming himself in what he considered to be the cultural sense. He wore the best colognes, sported the best suits and made sure he attended the best parties. He educated himself in art, music and theatre - but only enough to have a superficial conversation with someone over a drink. He made sure he knew the names of all the best wines and what to pair them with. And when his mother finally decided that he had emerged as a shining success to the Malfoy lineage, he started to wonder for the first time what he would do with the rest of his time.

This question was quickly answered for him, though. A few years after Draco graduated, his father had a stroke and was confined to a bed for about three months, before he passed away. Draco didn't remember feeling too remorseful about it - his father and he enjoyed a barely-there relationship and although he said pretty words at the funeral and did what he could to comfort his mother, he wasn't exactly weeping into handkerchiefs through the night. The big change in his life, though, was that the sole responsibility of Malfoy Enterprises landed on his shoulders overnight.

Most of Draco's peers and enemies thought that his stint would be a brief one - a couple of months, perhaps, before the board realized how incompetent he was and transformed him into a figurehead, with a few capable managers. When he continued as the MD for six months, they began to question the value of the company's stock. It was only about nine months after he had taken control, when business was still brisk and profits flowing, that they grudgingly conceded that he might not have a formal business education, but he certainly had his father's sharp sense of business acumen.

A year after his father passed away, company stock was at an all-time high and Draco Malfoy was all the rage in London's social circles. Other than his 'private time' - three hours, every day, in which he locked himself in his office and refused to interact with anybody - he was available to his employees, to the society madames and all the city belles who were more than keen to fall into his bed.

'But,' said Narcissa, reproachfully, 'You haven't got married.'

Draco sighed and put down his fork. As always, his mother had brought up the topic at the breakfast table. He sometimes wondered whether she tossed and turned all night worrying about some aspect of his life, which is why she always attacked him with it while he was eating breakfast.

'I don't want to get married just yet, mother,' he said, patiently.

'Draco, this is serious.'

Mentally, Draco groaned. Whenever his mother pronounced something serious, he knew the conversation could go on for about half an hour - if not more. It didn't help that it was particularly difficult to say no to Narcissa Malfoy, who was a soft and lovely lady with plenty of womanly tact. This morning, she was dressed in a pale pink gown and her large blue eyes were fixed directly on her son.

'Mother, it's just been a year since I took over the company. I don't have time for a wife.'

'You have time for girls,' Narcissa pointed out, shrewdly.

'That's different. I like them.'

'Well, darling, nobody's telling you not to keep meeting them after you get married - although, of course, you'll have to be a bit discreet about it. But it's high time you had a wife, because it's high time you produced an heir. Don't you want someone to pass on the company to?'

'There's plenty of time for that. Right now, I'm just concentrating on the business.'

Narcissa raised a hand in defeat, although Draco knew this conversation was by no means over. He transferred his attention back to his bacon and eggs.

'Speaking of business,' Narcissa said, suddenly, 'Gloria sent over an owl earlier this morning, asking to confirm your meeting today. Is everything alright?'

Draco glanced up and nodded quickly - a little too quickly. 'Of course. I just wanted her to go over some changes I've suggested. I need legal backing.'

'Surely you took her advice before?'

Draco thought for a moment before answering. Although most people perceived his mother as a society belle, he knew that she had a sense of sharpness that had rivaled his father's when it came to business. Also, she suspected that there was something going on between him and Gloria Pette - their company's legal head - which made her extra inquisitive.

'I did,' he admitted, 'But I set some things in motion and I wanted her to go over the documents again. I'll go over and talk to her. Where is the letter?'

Narcissa picked it from a tray on the table and passed it over to him. He opened it and smiled.

'I better go up to the office and get ready to meet her,' he said.


End file.
